


So Late So Soon

by menecio



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Minor Character Death, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12771651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menecio/pseuds/menecio
Summary: The life of the Creevey boys, as seen by their father.





	So Late So Soon

**Author's Note:**

> “How did it get so late so soon?  
>  It’s night before it’s afternoon.  
>  December is here before it’s June.  
>  My goodness, how the time has flewn.  
>  How did it get so late so soon?”
> 
> —Dr Seuss

Mr Creevey had understood when the letter addressed to Colin came. He hadn’t expected it, certainly, but he hadn’t been all that impressed by its appearance, either. Colin was a special boy, had always been, and it only made sense that there was something about him that was magical in the most literal sense of the word.

So Mr Creevey had smiled, nodded, and packed Colin off to an unknown world where things such as wands and cauldrons and dragons were real. He let his eldest child go with the confidence that Colin would finally fit in, with his oversized camera and skittish nature, and have a great time. Maybe even make some friends. Friends like him. Friends with magic in them.

There was an issue with a monster of some sort during his son’s first year and Colin was kept at the school’s hospital wing for several months, which sent the Creeveys into hysterics, but then everything was okay and Mr Creevey guessed that this sort of things just _happened_ in a world full of magic. He tried to take it in stride.

Then came Dennis’s letter. Only a year after entrusting Colin into the hands of wizards and witches, they were coming back for his baby boy. Were his children really wizard material? Were the Creeveys really that special? Or was it something in his wife’s blood that made his boys turn music boxes into toads when they got anxious? Out of the two of them, she was certainly the most magical.

But never mind the details. Mr Creevey saw the light in both of his sons’ eyes and sent them off, year after year, with a heart full of pride. His sons, the wizards. They would never be doctors or lawyers, but rather manticore tamers or potion brewers. Or maybe Colin would make a living out of those moving photographs he took. Dennis could help him, or he could finally find out what his vocation was, or something. There was no hurry. They were young and magic and full of life and colours.

But then the world turned grey and cold and scary, and Mr Creevey found it hard not to feel sad, not to be depressed or scared or miserable. England had always been a cloudy nation, but the leaden sky above seemed to asphyxiate them all, choking the laughter out of their lungs one cloud at a time. And then there were the accidents, and the terrorist attacks that no one knew who was orchestrating, and the freezing panic that gripped him each morning as he looked down at his wife, her face drawn in fitful sleep, and thought, _This might be our last day._

Colin and Dennis spoke about Dementors and Azkaban escapees and Death Eaters and a Dark Lord. Everything sounded like out of a fantasy novel to Mr Creevey, but he knew, by the urgency in his sons’ voices, that it was all very real and very dangerous.

His boys spoke about a nearing war, too, and people taking sides, and them having already chosen where they stood. The fire in their eyes was fierce, and Mr Creevey felt a pang of fear, a twist of dread, the first prick of regret ever at having allowed his children to delve into a world where he couldn’t protect them. He was a milkman. He wouldn’t even be able to defend them if faced with an ordinary mugger, so how was he supposed to protect them from a war where curses and spells were standard?

And then war came. And it was brutal.

And then it went, leaving a trail of pain and ashes.

The good guys, the ones his sons had joined, won. But winning meant nothing, in the end. He was a father but he had no children. Colin had died, tossed his life away in the midst of a battle that should have never been his, and Dennis had died as well, in a way, left his heartiness and spirit in the ruins of his beloved school.

Things would never be the same. It all came down to that: Mr Creevey had given his most important treasures to magic and been repaid his selflessness with cruelty.

Someone stopped by to tell them how brave Colin had been, how valiant, how fearless. How he had sneaked back to fight for what was right. How he was a hero beyond compare. After the person left, Dennis shut himself in his room and didn’t come out for days. Mr Creevey didn’t dare to go up and hold him, didn’t dare to weep with him, didn’t dare to purge the poison out of their veins because he didn’t want to stop mourning Colin just yet. Starting to heal so soon, to numb the pain, to try and move on, felt too much like treason.

Months later, or perhaps only weeks, Mr Creevey looked at himself in the mirror one day and saw the dark circles under his eyes, the thinning hair, the deep grooves of grief cut into his skin. He was growing old, but the loss and weariness he felt went past his age. Stones had been tied to his soul and he dragged himself like a man whom the world wanted to crush with every step he took.

Mr Creevey still remembered that fateful morning in which an owl had smacked Colin awake by flinging a very special letter through his open window. It had been only six years ago, although it seemed like a lifetime had passed. He remembered the excitement, the incredulous joy, the house filled with laughter, and wondered where all of that had gone.

Where had the world gone when they hadn’t been looking, and where had it taken them? And how could they go back to those golden times, those lazy mornings, those family photos with four members instead of three sets of empty eyes and a ghost to haunt them for ever?

And if he went back in time, would he still understand when the letter came, or would he cross himself and burn it at the hearth? Would he encourage his boys to be a little less magic and a little more common? And more importantly, would that save them? Because that was what it all that mattered, in the end.

Mr Creevey just wanted the joy, the wonder, their old life back.

He just wanted his boys back.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2008; I think it shows. Still, I'm fond of this ficlet. About time that I posted it!


End file.
